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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24075229">Afternoon Tea</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Owlpiper/pseuds/Owlpiper'>Owlpiper</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Batman - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alfred reads detective stories, Alfred takes tea, Good Dad Alfred Pennyworth, Homecoming, I thought you were dead, Kinda, Mild Language, Pre-Capes, loyal Alfred Pennyworth, the hoops Alfred has to jump through while Bruce was presumed dead</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 20:33:40</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,278</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24075229</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Owlpiper/pseuds/Owlpiper</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Alfred Pennyworth, guardian of the Wayne Estate, receives a long-awaited phone call.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Alfred Pennyworth &amp; Bruce Wayne</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>17</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Afternoon Tea</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Alfred set aside the old hardcover novel with a satisfied sigh, and finished the last of the tea in his cup. He poured another from the cozied pot on the tea tray on the coffee table, added a dash of milk, and sipped appreciatively. He glanced at the old grandfather clock behind the desk. Four o’clock. He still had time to start  another novel. Alfred still had duties, despite the years-long absence of his master, but he still liked to take an hour for tea in the afternoon, like he had with Missus Wayne, and then young Master Bruce, years ago. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> Another half-hour then, and he’d pay some bills and then start dinner. Soon enough the vultures would start circling, the prize of the Wayne fortune guarded only by one British butler. He would hold them off again, as he’d done for five years now, and thank his stars again that Master Bruce not quite yet being of age when he left had allowed him the legal right to keep everything ready. He took another sip of his steaming tea before setting the teacup on its saucer on the end table. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Alfred stood and replaced </span>
  <em>
    <span>Clouds of Witness </span>
  </em>
  <span>on the shelf, allowing his fingers to skip over one spine before pulling out </span>
  <em>
    <span>Strong Poison</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He returned to his spot on the study sofa, took another sip of tea, and opened the cover. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>To Missus Wayne, </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>allow me to recommend an old favourite of mine to a fellow mystery-lover. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Happy Birthday.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span> Alfred. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Alfred smiled sadly, and opened the old book like the old friend it was. He hadn’t gotten a quarter into the first trial scene when his private mobile phone rang. Only his niece and a few friends in England used that number since Bruce had vanished. He had talked with his niece Sunday, and it was only Tuesday. He pulled the cell from his trouser pocket with a little fumbling at the awkward angle, and saw it was an international number, but not England. The butler frowned. He would answer, but he could always block the number if it turned out to be unwanted. Alfred answered the phone. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Pennyworth.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A lightly accented computerized voice replied. “Do you accept a collect call from Beijing?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Perhaps it was Sayers’ mysteries that blew gently on the tiny spark of hope that never left Alfred’s mind. “I accept.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Please hold.” Then there was static, and a few computerized tones that Alfred was familiar with after half a lifetime’s trans-Atlantic phone calls, and a few more beeps that had Alfred worry the call was about to drop, but then the static resolved into that open buzz of a bad connection, and then, then, finally, a voice that was deeper than Alfred had heard it last, but oh, unmistakeable, said, warily:</span>
</p>
<p> <span>“Alfred?”</span></p>
<p>
  <span>“Bruce?” Alfred breathed. “Mast-Master Bruce?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s good to hear your voice, Alfred.” Alfred’s novel fell to the floor as he leapt to his feet.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Young man, you have taken years off my life in worry. Are you alright? Where are you? Do you need anything?” Alfred was already striding to Mister Wayne’s desk and opening the laptop he used for bookkeeping.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“A ride home would be great, Alfred.” The slight sheepishness in Bruce’s voice was so familiar after many nights finding his young charge up too late with police files, and so, so dear. Alfred’s eyes stung. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I should hope so, Master Bruce.” Alfred put the same gentle reproof in his voice as he had on those long-ago nights, maybe just a little extra to tell Bruce just how worried he’d been. “Beijing, was it? I can have you on a commercial flight today, or, actually,” Alfred pulled up the contact list for private pilots that contracted for Wayne Enterprises. “Hmm. You’ll need papers. Be at the Beijing airport tonight by eight your time, I’ll send your passport.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Thank you Alfred.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You are welcome, Mast-Mister Wayne.” Alfred found the stinging in his eyes had spread to his throat, and he did  not want to lose the phone connection to that long-lost voice. But that long-lost voice was speaking.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Alfred. Please.” he sounded a little choked too. “We both know I’m not Mister Wayne. Not to you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Master Bruce. My dear boy. Of course.” Alfred smiled. Good. Good. He sent the request for the pilot and jet to leave Gotham International within a few hours, with an extra captain and crew so the jet could turn around immediately, all paid double for the short notice. He pulled the passport he’d had a bugger of a time renewing a few months after Bruce’s disappearance from the top desk drawer. He would have to hang up. Right now, he could hear Bruce breathing through the line, a few distant noises from wherever the young master was, and he would have to hang up to make sure Bruce made it home. “Master Bruce,” said Alfred, “why now? Why did you call now? It must be nearly five in the morning over there.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Bruce’s soft chuckle, so like his father’s, was balm to Alfred’s lonely soul. “I wake up early. And today, I woke up and knew it was time to come home.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Very good, sir,” said Alfred. There would be time to berate his charge later for gallivanting off halfway around the world without so much as a goodbye and giving Alfred not a sign of life for five years. But now, there was much to do. “Eight o’clock this evening, sir. And you’ll have less trouble with customs if you’re clean shaven, I believe. There will be a lot of people wanting an explanation, Master Bruce. I suggest you be ready for them.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know, Alfred. I’ll tell you everything tomorrow.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I would appreciate that, sir. Remember, eight o’clock.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Eight o’clock, Alfred, I’ve got it.” There was that chuckle again. “Thank you Alfred. I’ll see you tomorrow.” The line closed with a double click. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Alfred took a few deep breaths, replaced his phone in his pocket, and let out possibly the biggest smile of his life. Then, he started to laugh. Alfred was an English butler, and the very image of decorum, but he was alone, his charge was alive, and five years of fear and worried love were slipping from his stiff shoulders. Alfred laughed, and even leapt into the air and came down in a great stomp, and screamed “Hah! Hah! Hazzah! I told them he was alive!” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The next day he would return to the study and tut his lack of composure as he tidied the book tented on the floor and the stone-cold tea in the cup and the pot, and his half-finished biscuit, and begin supervising the cleaning crew and removing dust sheets from the furniture in the manor and preparing the old great house to be truly lived in again. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tonight, though, he would rush out of the manor with tears still burning his eyes, and hand the passport of one Bruce Wayne (aged twenty-two) over to the pilot of WE’s fastest jet himself, and watch it take off, and then stop at one of the few florists still open and buy four dozen red roses. He would take them back to the Manor, and in the bright golden sunset he would lay them on the headstones of Thomas and Martha Wayne… but no. No, all of that could wait, too. Alfred spun on his heel and grabbed his own passport, and threw some of Thomas’ old clothes in a duffel for Bruce, and set off to the airport, to see his ward for the first time in years. He barely remembered to lock the door behind him.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Not my first fanfic, but the first I've posted! This might become the prologue to a longer work.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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